


Courting

by faithlessone



Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Flirting, F/M, Fluff, SO MUCH FLUFF, an ideal romance, omg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-08-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:14:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25631905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithlessone/pseuds/faithlessone
Summary: Cassandra finally plucks up the courage to ask Brennan about the flirting. With her.
Relationships: Cassandra Pentaghast/Male Trevelyan, Male Inquisitor/Cassandra Pentaghast
Series: Stormheart - (M!Trevelyan/Cassandra) [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1756030
Comments: 49
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

She delays the question for three days, once they arrive at Skyhold.

It isn’t hard.

Brennan is stolen away by the council as soon as he steps foot in the fortress, all three of his advisors anxious that he does not sneak away again before they can interrogate him about the information learned in the Exalted Plains. From what she can tell, they keep him in the war room from dawn till midnight for at least two of those days.

For her own part, she neglects her usual training regime, hiding in her attic to read the book the Lord Seeker had given her. Cover to cover. Over and over again. It takes at least four re-readings before she can fully grasp the contents of it. Even then, the magnitude of what it contains, the revelations it holds within it, are… difficult to comprehend. Especially those that pertain to… her own experience.

The truth of the vigil.

But she cannot settle to contemplating what it means for her – what it means for the whole order, whatever is left of it – while her mind is so divided. So conflicted.

She cannot be correct. Whatever they have between them, it is not the stuff of her novels, of her closely guarded dreams. That isn’t for her, and it certainly isn’t for _them_. He is the Herald, the Inquisitor. She is his warrior, his protector, his guardian. Just as she was when they pulled him from the snow after Haven. That is all. That is all it _ever_ can be.

Isn’t it?

Eventually, though, she is going to have to talk to him about it.

She practices a speech. Something simple. Reminding him of his position, and her position, and the impossibility of their relationship becoming anything… more. Not that it will be, or should be. In all likelihood, he will apologise for his naturally exuberant nature misguiding her. Her imagination has been well honed over the years, and she must be reading more into this than there is.

On the third day, she sends him a note via one of the runners, requesting him to suggest a place for them to talk privately.

She needs to have this conversation in private. Not in her usual spot by the practice dummies, where anyone could walk by and overhear. Not in her attic either. She needs… she needs to be able to _leave_ if things go sour on her.

He sends a message back, suggesting the walkway above the garden. They will have to access it via Vivienne’s balcony, but she is still away on personal business in Orlais. The rooms it leads to are rarely in use. The sound does not carry.

Perfect.

When the time comes, he is already waiting for her. Lingering patiently near the door. None of her nervous energy suffuses him. If anything, he seems pleased to see her. Relaxed.

“There you are,” he says lightly, as she approaches. “This is all rather clandestine, isn’t it?”

She pushes open the door to the walkway, her mouth dry. He follows.

“I was hoping we could speak privately.”

He smiles. “Are we not?”

Of course. A brilliant start.

“Right. Of course we are.” They walk further along the passage. Now the time comes to actually say it, all of her carefully worded speech has slipped from her mind. “The flirting. With me. I’ve… noticed it. Unless it is my imagination, which is entirely possible…”

“No, it’s not your imagination,” he interrupts, softly. He has a somewhat guarded expression though. Waiting to see what else she will say?

“You cannot _court_ me, if that’s your intention. It is impossible.”

“Why is it impossible, exactly?”

“That should be obvious.”

“It isn’t obvious to me.”

He sounds… hurt? No. This wasn’t her intention at all. He was supposed to tell her that he felt only friendship for her, that she was reading too much into his innocent flirtatious banter. Imagining things that weren’t there. At most, that it was nothing but chivalry, like the chevalier he once dreamed of being.

It cannot be that…

He is the Inquisitor.

He is the _Herald of Andraste._

She is…

What can he _possibly_ see in her?

“You intend to properly court me?” she asks, trying and failing not to sound incredulous. “You, of all people?”

Something like hope breaks across his expression. “Is that what you want?”

No.

It’s too much. It’s all too much. This was a mistake. She shouldn’t have asked him anything, shouldn’t have brought it up at all.

“No.”

She says it instinctively, honed by long years of telling herself that she cannot have what she wants. Every reflex in her body screams at her to leave, and she obeys them. It is only after she has shut the door between them that she realises what she’s just done.

This is just like the night in the Herald’s Rest, except this time she doesn’t even have the excuse of not knowing what he was offering her before she turned it down.

Why must she always deny herself happiness?

Because it may come to an end?

Because she believes herself unworthy of it?

She presses herself back against the door. Just like that night, she wants to take it _back_. Shouldn’t she give him all the facts and let him have the chance to at least make the decision for himself? She should not deny him his happiness because she considers herself undeserving. If that even _is_ his intention.

Before she can talk herself out of it again, she twists, throwing the door open.

“I take it back. That _is_ what I want.”

He has walked away a little, but she catches up to him, getting as close as she dares.

“I want a man who… sweeps me off my feet, who gives me flowers and reads me poetry by candlelight. I want the ideal. You are the Inquisitor and the Herald of Andraste. You cannot be that man.”

He smiles, soft and warm and… yes, _hopeful_. “I didn’t expect you to feel this way.”

She sighs. “I know what you see. I am a warrior. I am blunt and difficult and self-righteous. But my heart lies beneath all that. It yearns for these things I cannot have. If you cannot see that, then desist. What enamours you is but the surface.”

“I _can_ be that man, Cassandra.”

“The world hinges on our actions. We face death at every turn, Inquisitor.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel.”

“It changes everything.”

She pulls away from him, turning to leave again, and he reaches out, catching her hand.

“Cassandra, do you _want_ me to court you?”

Has she not been clear?

“Did I not say?”

He gives her an awkward smile. “You said you want a man to sweep you off your feet. And I will. I have every intention of it. I simply want to know… Did you mean _me_? Specifically. I would do whatever you wanted, but if _my_ attention is unwanted…”

“It is not unwanted.”

His eyes are still searching hers. “You said you were blunt, but I believe that we are talking around the issue. Can we make it less… complicated?”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

He takes a deep breath. “Cassandra, I _care_ for you. I would do anything you asked, to show you how much I care for you. And yes, I know the world is falling down around us, but I think that makes it more important to snatch what happiness we can find for ourselves. For me, that would be you. It is already… _you_.”

His words sound like something she would read in one of her favourite books. But the look in his eyes… It’s the same look he has given her a dozen times, and she finds that she believes him utterly.

He waits, patiently.

What can she tell him?

“Brennan, I did not know I was allowed to _care_ …” she starts, hesitantly. “But I _wanted_ to. The sun is… is brighter when you’re near.”

He lifts their joined hands to his lips, smiling bright and beautiful before he presses a kiss to her knuckles. But rather than letting her hand go, he keeps hold of it, held between them as if he’s afraid she’s going to flee again. Loosely, though. He would not keep her against her will.

(Though he would _keep_ her, and the thought makes her heart beat faster.)

“How… long?” she asks. She’s not sure what she’s hoping the answer will be. Whether it’s better if he has had these feelings for a while – for him to be sure of them – or if she’d prefer it to be something recent, that has developed over the months they have worked together.

His face softens. “Since the beginning?”

That certainly wasn’t what she was expecting.

“The first time we met, I was _interrogating_ you for murdering the Divine.”

A slight flush colours his cheeks. “You were. You were terrifying, but also…” He trails off, gaze dropping away from hers, clearly a little embarrassed.

“Also?”

At the prompt, he looks up and into her eyes, a fire burning behind them. “Powerful. Captivating. Radiant. I didn’t stand a chance. How could I?”

“I don’t think Varric would agree with you. He had quite a different reaction.”

He grins, mischievous. “Thank the Maker. I don’t fancy my chances competing against him for your affections. I have no skill in writing.”

She punches him in the arm with her free hand. Not as hard as she could, perhaps a little harder than she would if they were sparring, but he yelps. Whether in surprise or pain, she isn’t sure.

“That did not hurt.”

He laughs. “Perhaps we need to go downstairs and take a turn in the ring. Release all this tension between us.”

Is it terrible that that sounds like a wonderful idea?

She has barely raised a fist or a weapon in days, so consumed with the book of Seeker secrets and preparing for this conversation.

“Are you serious?”

He lifts her hand again and presses another brief kiss to her knuckles.

“Of course. It’s how we dance, isn’t it? I don’t see any reason for that to change.”

“I hope it will not be… the _only_ way we dance.”

In the space of a moment, he wraps his arm around her waist, joined hands moving into a perfect waltz hold, though they are pressed far too close for decency, she is certain. All the air seems to vanish from her lungs.

“Something more like this?” he asks, face so close she would only need to incline her head the slightest fraction for her lips to reach his.

She makes a noise that she hopes is affirmatory, but may just be a desperate intake of breath. He smiles, releasing her and stepping back.

“Apologies, my lady. I got a little ahead of myself. Flowers. Poetry. Candlelight. I have not forgotten. But first, quarterstaffs?”

She nods, already missing the feeling of his arm around her. This… must be a dream. She is sure of it. Reality has never been this kind.

They walk back together, not touching, but close enough that they could. Through Vivienne’s balcony and across the main hall towards the great doors. No one gives them a second look, until…

“Message for you, ser!”

Reality crashes back to her. A runner approaches, holding out a note. Just for a moment, she wants him to ignore it, and she hates herself for that. Nothing has changed, even if everything has changed. Luckily, he has a better sense of responsibility. He takes the note, reading it quickly. Then he turns to her.

“I’m sorry, Cassandra. Do you mind if we postpone our appointment till this evening? War council emergency.”

She shakes her head. “Till this evening.”

“After dinner, I promise.”

“I trust you.”

He gives her a look that almost immolates her where she stands, and then lets himself be dragged off to the war room. She watches him until the door closes and then takes a deep breath.

Whatever she was expecting this day to bring, this is not it. She wanted to clear her mind, but she finds herself in almost more chaos. A good kind of chaos. Light-headed and excited, for the first time in what seems like years.

She curses the fact she had delayed so long to have this conversation.

How is she to wait until this evening?


	2. Chapter 2

He feels like he is walking on air instead of flagstones as he makes his way quickly to the war room.

Cassandra _likes_ him.

She didn’t come right out and say it, of course, but her meaning was unmistakable. She wants _him_ to sweep her off her feet. With flowers and poetry and candlelight. And dancing. She wants to dance with him the way he has always wanted…

“This had better be a case of life and death,” he says, throwing the door open hard enough that it crashes against the stone wall. “Many lives and many deaths.”

“Isn’t it always, Inquisitor?” Leliana asks.

“Two days ago, Josephine called us back at _midnight_ to decide what we should _wear_ to the Empress’ ball. _And_ I was overruled. Red will not suit me, Josephine.”

“Yes, it will. And the measurements had to be sent to the seamstresses,” the ambassador justifies. “If you hadn’t charged off to Caer Oswin when you did…”

“I’m not having this argument again,” Cullen cuts in, a warning note in his voice.

“Very well.” Josephine bristles. “We have received word that Movran the Under has made good on your judgment of armed exile in Tevinter. He and his clan immediately staked a claim to a large section of land along the Imperial Highway, at the edge of the Silent Plains. It is inhospitable and vacant, and they claim they are not interested in banditry or actively threatening anyone. Beyond, of course, suddenly declaring that they now live within Imperium borders. Our Tevinter contacts say the relocation has caused significant concern among the magisters.”

The three advisors begin to discuss what the Inquisition’s next move should be on this matter, but despite his best efforts, he finds himself barely listening to them. He knows he should, but every time he blinks, he sees Cassandra’s eyes, wide and warm and only inches away from his. It makes everything else rather difficult to care about.

“Inquisitor?”

Josephine’s voice cuts through the vision.

“Sorry, yes. I agree.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You agree that we should send supplies to him and his men, to enable them to provoke the Imperium?”

Void. It was worth a chance.

“No, sorry. That’s… that’s probably not a good idea.”

“Are we distracting you from something, Inquisitor?” Cullen asks, with a slight smirk.

“Yes, actually. In fact, if there isn’t any more _pressing_ business, I rather need your help.”

“Oh?” Josephine looks a little affronted.

“Flowers. What sort of flowers do you think we can get hold of in the next day or two?”

His advisors exchange glances between themselves. Nervous and confused.

“Flowers?” Leliana asks.

He nods. “Roses would be my preference, but I’m not sure that they grow well in the mountains.”

“Roses.” Cullen repeats, deadpan.

“Perhaps… perhaps it would be better if you explained their purpose?” Josephine adds.

Has he not?

No.

“Cassandra likes me.”

Whatever reaction he was expecting from his advisors, the vague, blank expressions and covertly exchanged glances are… not it.

“Is this news to you?” Leliana asks, gently. “Have you not noticed, this past year?”

“No, I mean… she _likes_ me. She has given me permission to court her.”

More covertly exchanged glances. Really, he was expecting at least one of them to congratulate him. Would it be so hard?

“Is that not… what you’ve _been_ doing?” Josephine asks.

“What?”

“Sending coded love notes in your reports when you’re apart,” Cullen starts, and then they all pile on.

“Commissioning gifts for her.”

“Having Varric write an entire book for her.”

“Stealing each other away at any opportunity, to talk long into the night.”

“Healing every cut and bruise she’ll let you touch.”

“Sparring with her, hand to hand, until you are both sweaty and laughing.”

“Requesting her favourite wine when you resupply.”

“Holding her hand whenever you think you’re alone.”

Oh… well… now that they put it _that_ way. Was he really so obvious? And for that matter, then how did it take her nearly a year and a half to bring it up?

“That was different,” he says, trying to sound sure of himself and failing a little. “I don’t think she… noticed.”

“She was always an expert at denial,” Leliana says fondly. “But now she has?”

He nods, unable to hold back his smile.

“How romantic.”

“So… flowers?”

Josephine scribbles something on her writing board, and then looks up at him. “I will see what I can do. Will the day after tomorrow suffice?”

Two more days to wait… it feels like a lifetime.

He nods anyway.

“Now, I also need some poetry…”

“I have a volume that she gave me herself, once upon a time,” Leliana cuts in. “It contains some beautiful words. Very romantic.”

Is that cheating? It feels… somewhat like cheating. Should he scour the shelves of the Skyhold library himself for a tome? Or go traipsing halfway across Thedas to find her something new? Both of those options require so much time and outside effort, though. And once he’s courted her, he’ll have time for that. He’ll _make_ time. He can take a shortcut now.

“Thank you.”

“Anything I can help with, if this is going to be a council matter?” Cullen asks. The smirk is back, and if Brennan didn’t know better, he’d believe that the commander was merely deeply amused by the whole affair.

“I need… a place. Outside Skyhold, but close? Somewhere _private_. And beautiful, if possible. That we could go to in the evening. Do… do you know of anywhere?”

The smirk remains.

“I know of a place.”

“Do you mean the…” Leliana starts.

“Yes,” Cullen interrupts.

He can’t help his eyes narrowing, a little suspicious. The way he says it… has the commander been doing a little courting of his own? And of who?

She nods. “It’s a good idea. I will post a few of my more discreet scouts on the path to dissuade anyone from bothering you, Inquisitor.”

“I _really_ don’t want an audience…”

“Out of sight and earshot, I promise. And Cassandra will not see them.”

(If she finds out, she’ll punch him, but he suspects it will be worth it.)

He nods. “Lastly, candles? Can I requisition some candles for this… place, wherever it is?”

Cullen exchanges a quick glance with Josephine, and then Leliana. Void, does everyone know about this secret romantic spot except for him? Or… not so secret, he supposes, if they think they’ll have to post _guards_.

“Along the path?” Josephine suggests. “And a few more around the grove?”

“It’ll be beautiful,” Leliana agrees.

He knows he asked for the help, but he can’t help feeling like the plan is slipping away from him entirely. His advisors would probably argue that he was simply utilising his resources, just like they had when control of the war table had first been given to him, and he worried about not doing things himself. But this… this _should_ be personal. His own grand romantic gesture. He can’t let his council court Cassandra for him.

“Can you show me where it is? I’ll… I’ll set everything up.”

“Are you sure, Inquisitor? I can have…”

“No, Josephine,” Cullen cuts in. He gives Brennan an understanding nod. “The day after tomorrow. I’ll take you down there myself. Is there anything else you’ll require?”

He has a couple of small ideas, but… he can deal with those himself. No need to trouble his council with them.

“That’ll be all. Thank you.”

“It is our pleasure, Inquisitor,” Leliana says, with an uncharacteristically warm smile. “I hope the evening is all you dream. For _both_ of you.”

“Well, we have our orders,” Cullen adds. “To work?”

Josephine nods, and though he can _tell_ she’s dying to ask him a hundred more questions, she only offers one. “And Movran?”

It takes him a solid few seconds to remember the reason he had been called into this meeting in the first place. The goat-hurling avaar.

“Leave them be. They say they’re not interested in threatening anyone. If that changes, we’ll reconsider our position.”

She nods. “Understood, Inquisitor. We will reconvene tomorrow after breakfast, and have a full day of preparations, so as to leave the following day completely free for you. Is this acceptable?”

Another full day of meetings and fittings and etiquette lessons? How much more preparation does he need for this blasted ball?

“Perhaps the day… after, too?”

He can see Leliana barely stifling a smile in his peripheral vision, Cullen not bothering to hide his smirk on the other side. Josephine merely raises an impeccable eyebrow and makes a mark on her writing board.

“As you wish, Inquisitor. Have a nice evening.”

He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “I will.”

By the time he’s managed to leave the war room, slip upstairs to grab his quarterstaff, and get accidentally very distracted by the pile of notes and letters and reports on his desk that he swears are breeding whenever he leaves the room… dinner is all but over.

He knows he should eat something before he meets Cassandra, but he’s too excited.

As he’s walking through the main hall, however…

“Inquisitor?”

One of Leliana’s scouts presses a small bundle into his hands, and then disappears back into the bustle. The spymaster is nowhere to be seen, as usual, but… yes, she has obtained a sandwich for him. Andraste bless her. He eats it quickly and darts down to the training ring.

She’s waiting.

Leaning against the tree in her little training area, with a book in her hand. Just for a moment, he considers sneaking up behind her, to see what she’s reading, but… this… courtship is so new. He doesn’t want to scare her, to make her uncomfortable. Maker forbid, but if she takes this back just because he’s an idiot and she decides he’s not worth the trouble, he might actually… break.

So, instead, he lingers just at the edge of the grass, exactly in her eyeline for whenever she glances up, rotating the quarterstaff between his hands to get out at least a little of his nervous energy.

After a minute or so, she looks up, startling when she sees him there.

“Inquisitor! You… How long have you been there?”

“Not long,” he tells her, closing the gap between them. “Didn’t want to interrupt. Good book?”

She glances back at it, scowling a little. “Not as good as I was expecting. The author is usually so good, but this… This is not well-written.”

“Not one of Varric’s, I hope?”

A soft smile breaks over her face. “It is not, no. Are you ready to start?”

He twirls the quarterstaff over his wrists, getting used to the feel of it. It’s lighter than his usual dragon bone mage-staff, and doesn’t have the same familiar crackle of energy when he holds it, but it’s a comforting sensation. His body and brain associate it with Cassandra, and her alone.

“Are you?”

She turns, retrieving a quarterstaff from the ground, and tucks the book into her pack.

They don’t spar with quarterstaffs very often. Not anymore. Not since Skyhold and everything got so, so much more urgent. It suits him, used to carrying his mage staff and using it in spell forms, but it’s not her favourite weapon, and he knows it. When they do spar, he usually requests barehanded. Closer. More intimate. He feels he might be glad of the distance tonight though. He’s still kicking himself for that ‘dancing’ bit earlier. She gives an inch and he takes a mile.

The first few moves are textbook basics. Strike and block, strike and block. Getting used to their new rhythm. Not that it’s so very different from their old rhythm, thank the Maker.

She twists her wrist, managing to slip beneath his guard and poke him in the ribs.

“One,” she says, smiling.

He narrows his eyes, challenging, and then presses his advantage while she’s still pleased with herself, flicking his staff up and tapping her in the shoulder. “One, one.”

She glares at him, and he takes the opportunity again, twirling his staff and tapping her shoulder again with the other end of his staff. “Two, one.”

Another glare, but followed up immediately by a gut shot that he really, _really_ should have seen coming. “Two, two.”

After that, it’s on.

They find their flow.

Every parry is immediately followed by a strike; every advance with a counter. The points mount up, but they stop counting them out loud. It’s not about the points, it’s about the joy of the movement, the chase, the fight. The dance.

Eventually, she uses her staff to sweep at his legs. She’s done it before, and he managed to jump and clear it then, but this time she catches his ankle and he has to leap, rolling out of the way. On his way down, he arcs his staff towards her, and manages to connect with the back of her knee, sending her sprawling too.

Right on top of him.

It’s not the worst outcome, a traitorous part of his brain points out.

They’re both panting for breath. She reaches out her arms to push herself back up, but the effort seems too much for her, only managing to get to a sort of push-up position above him.

“I’ll count that as your point,” he tells her, softly.

Her gaze is flickering between his eyes and his mouth, and it takes everything in him not to hook his arm around her neck and pull her back down.

Flowers. Poetry. Candlelight.

Her ideal romance.

He promised.

“A draw, I believe,” she breathes.

Has there ever been such a perfect woman? He isn’t sure, and definitely doesn’t care. Instead he smiles at her, and offers her his hand, helping her push herself to her feet. She keeps hold of it, helping him up too once she’s stable.

“I think this is usually when I try to talk you into joining us in the Herald’s Rest, but I have a very long day tomorrow, so, I might just have to say good night.”

Her eyes cloud a little. “A long day?”

“Preparations for the ball. I’ve promised Josephine my undivided attention for a full day, in return for two days off after.”

“Two days… off?”

He lets himself grin. “You’ll find out. Patience.”

She scowls at him, but it’s one of her fond scowls. “Patience is not one of my virtues.”

“Even so.”

He shouldn’t – this evening has been temptation enough – but he lifts her hand to his lips again, pressing his now almost customary kiss against her knuckles. Her scowl fades away in its wake.

“Good night, my lady.”

“Good night, Brennan.”

Unable to help the grin that spreads across his face, he runs his thumb over her hand before he releases it, then stoops to pick up his abandoned quarterstaff.

Flowers. Poetry. Candlelight.

He can do this.


	3. Chapter 3

Despite her best intentions, and the fact he _had_ kept his promise to meet her for their sparring match, there is still a small part of her that thinks this is too good to be true. That she will wake up in the morning, and be back, before Caer Oswin, before she found out the truth or risked her heart. The fact that (as he had told her) the following day the council are in session from breakfast until long past dinner, does not help. She doesn’t see him at all for a day and a half.

Midway through the afternoon on the second day, one of the runners brings her a message. A set of directions, to a location just outside of Skyhold, and instructions to leave the fortress at sunset.

His writing.

She is quite familiar with it by now, having studied his letters as often as she has. However, his usual sigil has been replaced by his name.

She runs her fingers across it, re-reading the message again and again.

He leaves no hints as to his purpose. She knows what she _hopes_ will happen, but…

When the sun finally starts to sink, she makes her way slowly down the mountain. She wants to be excited, but the little voice in the back of her head will not quiet. What if he isn’t there? What if he’s changed his mind? What if…

There are candles.

A trail of them, leading to a grove with trees and more candles and… flowers? Pale pink, lavender and cream petals, sprinkled on the ground, and a bouquet of blooms in the same tones, propped against a basket on a blanket in the middle of the clearing.

There is no sign of… him, though.

Just as her heart begins to sink, she hears a rustle of movement behind her.

“On aching branch do blossoms grow, the wind a hallowed breath.”

Oh…

_Oh_ …

He steps towards her, book in hand, reciting poetry, just like she asked. Just like she _dreamed._ There’s a soft smile in his eyes as he steps past her, clearly determined to put on a show.

“It carries the scent of honeysuckle, sweet as the lover’s kiss. It brings the promise of more tomorrows, of sighs and whispered bliss.”

As he finishes the verse, he drops onto one knee in front of her.

This is…

This…

“You can’t be serious,” she says, overwhelmed.

“I _can_ , and I am,” he insists.

“And _that’s_ the poem you chose?”

He smiles. “You have a better one in mind?”

She reaches out for the book, but he takes her hand in his instead, kissing it and drawing her close as he stands up. Only then does he shut the book, holding it up for her to swipe. Drawing back from him a step or two, she looks at it.

This…

“ _Carmenum di Amatus_? I… did I used to have a copy of this?”

He smiles at her, warm and languid. “You lent it to Leliana. She was… a little delayed in giving it back.”

Now that he says it, she remembers. Years ago. She’d quoted something from it, and Leliana had borrowed the book to learn the poem off by heart. Then Cassandra had been sent on an errand by Justinia, and she had forgotten the matter entirely.

If she remembers correctly…

She skims through the pages, looking for a particular verse, leaning back against a nearby tree when she finds it.

“His lips on mine speak words not voiced, a prayer,” she reads aloud, as he moves around the tree to stand behind her. “Which travels down my spine like flames that shatter night. His eyes reflect the heaven’s stars, the Maker’s light. My body opens, filled and blessed, my spirit there.”

“Not merely housed in flesh, but brought to life,” he finishes, reading over her shoulder as he presses against her back, one arm wrapped securely around her waist. Then his voice drops, smooth as velvet, to whisper in her ear. “Shall we read another?”

She considers it, for all of a moment, but if she doesn’t kiss him soon, she may actually explode. The book slips from her hand as she twists in his arms, turning to face him. His expression is a mixture of awe and longing. Longing for… her? It still hardly seems possible. She leans forward, closing the gap between them, wrapping her arm around his neck to draw him yet closer.

The first touch of her lips against his is… electricity.

Lightning crackles through her veins, though whether it’s his power or her own blood reacting to his presence, she couldn’t say. Her entire awareness is consumed by him. The feel of his body, hard against her. The way his arms are holding her tight, as if she’s a dream that he will wake up from if he doesn’t. The scent of leather, sandalwood and petrichor, so familiar, yet so… new.

As she pulls back, just a little, to catch her breath, he lets out a small sigh of almost exquisite yearning.

“Cass…”

She swallows the rest of her name on his lips.

Has anything ever felt so… right? So true?

She threads her fingers through the hair at the back of his head, and he moans into her mouth, pressing her back against the tree. One hand moves to cup her cheek, and he retreats from her lips, feathering kisses along her jaw and down her throat as she arches herself against him.

Eventually, he withdraws, breathing laboured and pupils blown wide. She holds his gaze, steady and unwavering, still awed and stunned by this turn of events.

“That was…” he starts, trailing off almost immediately. “I’m sorry, I got carried away.”

“I started it,” she reminds him.

A smile spreads across his face, wide and incredulous, like he can’t believe his luck. “You did, didn’t you?”

“It has never felt like that before.”

He shakes his head slowly. “Nor for me.”

They remain there for a long moment, gazing into each other’s eyes, before he takes a step back; his hand drifting from her face and down her arm to take hers.

“I had a little more planned for tonight, if you are amenable to it?” he says, a little… nervous?

She nods, letting him draw her towards the blanket.

Once they are both sat, side-by-side, he turns his attention to the basket she had noticed earlier, and the bouquet, which he hands to her with a sheepish grin.

“Flowers, as you requested. The first of many, if I have my way.”

When she had said it, she had been imagining wildflowers. The kind he picked often when they were out on their expeditions. Perhaps something grown in the Skyhold garden. But these… she doesn’t remember seeing anything so beautiful at the fortress. Where…

“Josephine… helped,” he admits, obviously seeing the question in her eyes. “I asked her for flowers that were worthy of your beauty, and she… I think she came close enough. For now.”

“You flatter me.”

His smile turns incredulous. “You don’t believe you are, do you? Beautiful, I mean.”

“Why should I believe something that isn’t true?”

Leaning over, he steals a single, brief kiss from her. “One day you will believe it. I will make it a personal quest; to help you see what I see.”

She cannot dwell on that thought. Even now. So she distracts him.

“What is in the basket?”

He beams.

“Wine, for us to share,” he tells her, removing a bottle with a small flourish. “And I know how much you like sweets, even if you would never admit it, so I bribed the kitchen staff into making these for you.”

He produces a bundle wrapped in cloth, allowing her to undo it. A pile of small cakes, each in the shape of a small woodland creature, almost tumble from it.

No…

How?

She lifts one to her nose, inhaling the sweet, spicy scent of honey and cinnamon; the tang of orange and lemon. Closing her eyes for a moment, it smells like… home.

“I… I have not had these since I was a child. How did you…”

A slight blush colours his cheeks. “You mentioned them once. Back in Haven, that day the snow was particularly hard and the wind collapsed half the tents on the practice field. You were talking to Leliana and wishing you had them because they always made you feel warm.”

Haven?

“That was _months_ ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry. It took a while to track down the right recipe, and then, well… I had to save it for a special occasion. I hope they taste right. I tried them on a couple of the Nevarran recruits, but there seem to be regional variations.”

She selects one (a perfect little fennec) and pops it into her mouth. The flavour bursts across her tongue, almost catapulting her back to the kitchen at her uncle’s estate. Anthony distracting the cook while she swiped a handful of little cakes from their cooling rack and absconded with them.

A tear trickles unbidden down her cheek.

“Hey, no, don’t cry! Please, please don’t cry!” Brennan’s voice is filled with alarm, but she silences him with another, grateful kiss.

“ _Thank you_ ,” she says when she pulls back. “This is more… more than I expected.”

“Well, it isn’t over yet,” he says, recovering swiftly and pouring them both a cup of wine. He hands one to her, clinking against his. “To us?”

“To us.”

It’s the same wine he brought her after the events at Caer Oswin, the one she likes. Unsurprising, but… comforting. She doesn’t want to lose what they already have, but it does seem that he is only interested in adding to their relationship.

“It is beautiful here,” she says, sighing as she finally takes a good look at their surroundings. Quiet and peaceful, with the stars now fully out and the light of the candles illuminating everything softly around them. “How did you find it?”

He laughs, bashful again. “Cullen. And no, I don’t know how he found it, he wouldn’t tell me. I think he might be courting someone of his own, you know? Actually, _do_ you know? You’re his friend. Is he romancing anyone?”

She frowns, softly, trying to think. He hasn’t mentioned anyone… _special_ , to her.

“He plays chess with a few different people, but no one in particular. Aside from Dorian, but I can’t imagine…”

“Dorian’s head over heels for Bull,” he cuts in, grinning.

He is?

“I don’t think either of them have figured it out yet, but it shouldn’t take long.”

She nods, still a little perplexed. “If you say so.”

He grins at her. “Enough talk of them, though. This is supposed to be about you, and me sweeping you off your feet. Another poem, perhaps? There _was_ another one I liked in your book.”

Glancing around, she spots the book, abandoned at the foot of the tree. It seems like too much effort to retrieve it. He follows her line of sight, starting to get up, but she rests her hand on his arm, stalling him.

“Just… sit. Here, did you try one of these?”

She selects another of the little cakes (a tiny nug) and offers it to him. He gives her another grin, and then dips his head, biting it straight out of her fingers.

“Delicious,” he says, after he has chewed thoughtfully for a moment, and then, “though I think I prefer… this.” He leans forward again, capturing her lips instead.

When he pulls back, she chases him, twisting her hand into the soft material of his tunic to keep him pressed against her. He tips back, though whether by accident or design she isn’t sure, leaving her sprawled half on top of him, still kissing.

She could do this forever, if it wouldn’t interfere with both their duties, with the saving of the world. His arms wrap tightly around her, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of her head, holding her to him. She clings to him in turn, working her hands down the clasps of his tunic…

“No,” he says, muffled, his hand disappearing from her hair to apprehend her questing fingers.

When the word and motion registers in her head, she recoils sharply, sitting up and away from him. Of course… Of course he doesn’t want her like that. She has been a fool.

“Cassandra?” He opens his eyes, searching her face, pushing himself up after her. His hand closes around hers and holds it tight, pressed against his chest. “No, no, whatever you’re thinking, stop it. I want you, I want _this_ , just not… Not now. Not here.”

His words do not help as much as he clearly wants them to, because he kisses her swiftly again, cradling her cheek with his free hand, and then takes a deep breath.

“You deserve to be loved, Cassandra. _Loved_. Revered. Cherished. Worshipped. Properly. And I can’t do that here, in the open air, where anyone could discover us. Do you understand?”

She remains silent, trying to process. He waits, patiently.

Her frame of reference for this is woefully lacking.

With Regalyan, it had been a fervent thing. A few brief but blazing stolen moments in tents and inns, before he returned to the Circle and she took up her duties as the Right Hand of the Divine. They had exchanged a few letters over the years, infrequently and without much substance. When she had heard he was attending the Conclave, she hadn’t been in any hurry to renew their acquaintance, and while she had mourned his death, she had not regretted the missed opportunity.

The only other experience she has of love are in her novels. Second-hand and fanciful, still…

“You told me you wanted to court me,” she says, hesitantly. Even now, even with that look in his eyes, her heart still cannot quite believe that he’s actually here.

“I did. And I do. This isn’t… this isn’t _it_ , Cassandra. You thought I’d bring you to a candlelit clearing, read you a poem, offer you some flowers and what… that would be it? My duty discharged?”

She can’t help but nod.

He gives her a fond smile.

“Oh, my love,” he says, tenderly. “I’ve been dreaming of this for more than a year. I have a great many plans for us. I know you don’t like being patient, but… If you could? Just wait a little longer?”

She nods again.

He leans in, stopping just a fraction of an inch away from her, waiting for her to close the gap between them. Gratefully, she does so.

The electricity is still there. The lightning crackling through her veins. He still holds her tight, as if she is a dream he doesn’t want to wake up from.

Eventually, he pulls back again, feathering kisses along her jaw and throat the same way he had done before, as if he wants to stop but can’t resist the taste of her skin. Half-heartedly, she wishes she hadn’t worn her functional, everyday leathers, but something a little looser, a little more accessible. Perhaps then he would…

No. That is not the point.

He seems to sense her unease.

“Talk to me. What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing. I am just… I do not know.”

He smiles. “Come here.”

Sinking back down onto the blanket, he guides her into his arms. The same way he had done the night of the dragon, under the stars. When she had cried all over him and fallen asleep from exhaustion, half-expecting him to either carry her back to camp or move away from her in the night.

“Still my knight in shining robes?” she asks, softly.

“Always,” he promises, dropping a kiss into her hair. “I love you.”

The easy way he says it almost undoes her.

“Here, tonight… I believe you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... so, yeah. Can you see what I didn't like about the way the romance scene went down in game? Still 2 more chapters to go - their first date isn't over yet!!


	4. Chapter 4

He wakes with her in his arms.

Not a dream, then.

The thought has crossed his mind a dozen times since that first conversation above the garden; that his subconscious would grant him his dearest wish and snatch it back in the light of day. But here she is. Under the blanket with him. Warm and soft and… his.

Still asleep. 

Even in his wildest dreams, he doesn’t think he could have imagined the events of the previous evening. He’d been so nervous about the poem, so terrified that it might not be what she wanted after all, that he would mess it up somehow. That she wouldn’t enjoy the little cakes, or that he should have done… more.

But her reaction was more than he dared hope for. 

The way she _kissed_ him… 

Dawn is creeping up on them, and he’s never known her to sleep past it. He relishes the peace and calm, still slightly dreading what may happen when she wakes. Though he trusts that she likes him, trusts that she _wants_ him, there is still a small voice in his head that says she might get scared and take it back.

The look on her face when he had stopped her undressing him the previous night comes sharply into focus in his head. Panic and fear and shame. He can’t help but draw her a little tighter in his arms, dropping a kiss into her hair. They ought to have talked about their… expectations. Before. He’d been so caught up in the planning, the surprise…

She stirs, tilting her face into the crook of his neck against the light that is now starting to spill over the horizon.

“Good morning,” he says, softly.

Startled, her head comes up.

Will she ever stop looking at him in the morning, surprised that he has stayed with her? He hopes so. One day he hopes she will do nothing but smile. Or kick him out of bed because she’s late for training and he can’t stop kissing her...

“Good morning,” she echoes back at him, somewhat less convinced. “I should…”

“I really hope that sentence isn’t going to end with you telling me you need to go to training,” he cuts in, his hand gently rubbing her back. “Cullen promised he would deal with it today. He was supposed to let you know.”

From the answering look on her face, he assumes that she was, and that Cullen didn’t.

“I did say _two_ days off,” he reminds her. “I spent most of yesterday putting everything together, I was hoping you wouldn’t be tired of my company already.”

In response, she dips her head, capturing his mouth with hers.

It’s the best feeling in the world. Better than the first time he intentionally cast magic and his power did what he wanted it to do – his previous gold standard. A shock similar to his favourite lightning spell, but exponentially better. He can’t imagine anything would be able to best it.

Well…

No.

There _are_ a few things he can think of, especially here and now with his arms around her and her body pressed against his, but… those can wait. He wants her to be _thoroughly_ convinced of his feelings for her before they get there.

When she finally pulls back from him, he can’t help chasing her just a little, pressing a last kiss to her jaw before she sits back, stretching.

“What did you plan?”

Now that she asks, almost everything vanishes from his head. Can they not just lie here together in the sunlight for a few more hours? He could fetch her book for her and read a few more poems.

But no.

Idly he wonders if the same scouts are still hiding in the trees further up the path, or if they worked in shifts like they do out on expedition. How many couples they had to shoo away. Selfish, really, to take up the space for much longer.

“Back to Skyhold,” he says, when she raises an eyebrow and looks in danger of sending a threatening look at him. “And then a little training of our own. I’m certain my hand to hand skills are getting rusty. We’ve been so busy lately and I had no one to spar with in the Plains. The scouts and soldiers are all too polite, or scared, to actually _hit_ me. Bull just wants me to hit him. With tree branches. For reasons I cannot even begin to understand. And then when I asked to spar, he said something about me not being ready to ‘ride the Bull’ and I completely agreed, so I didn’t ask again. Come to think of it, I’m not sure we were talking about the same thing. Sera finds it funny to fire arrows to shoot things off my head, but she’s too _sneaky_ to spar with. She tried teaching me archery though, and… it’s not my forte. Let’s just leave it at that. And Vivienne… doesn’t do anything that might make her sweat, I swear. Just that weird stretching and bending thing to ‘channel her energy’. I tried it anyway, and I had aches in places I didn’t know I _could_ ache. Also I fell over. A lot.”

He’s babbling, he knows he is, but somehow, he just can’t… stop.

She kisses him.

It’s very effective.

When she pulls back, she has a quizzical look on her face. “Sera… shoots things off your head?”

Void. Now that he thinks about it, he didn’t mean for her to find out about that. Ever.

“Apples, mostly. Sometimes other fruit.”

She makes a disapproving noise. “She and I are going to have a discussion about that. I doubt she will enjoy it.”

“Don’t be too hard on her. Please?”

“I will be as hard on her as I wish. One of us has to be concerned for your safety.” Her voice softens, her hand trailing up his chest to cup his cheek. “I like your head. It would sadden me greatly if anything happened to it. Not to mention…”

“Yes?”

“The world may _end_ without you.” She punctuates her sentence with a light but somehow stinging tap to his cheek.

Ahh. Of course. Half the reason he hadn’t been intending for her to find out.

Trying to distract her, he pulls away, sitting up and beginning to repack the basket. Josephine told him to leave the candlesticks – one of her people will gather and clean them – and the flower petals can stay, but he gathers the abandoned cups and empty wine bottle, packing them away. Then the blankets, folding them carefully. She fetches the book, holding it against her chest as if she’s not sure what to do with her hands.

“Back to Skyhold?” he says.

She nods, uncertainly.

He shifts the basket and blankets into one arm, and holds out his free hand towards her. She glances down, but doesn’t take it.

“Are we going to…” she trails off.

For a moment, he frowns, confused. What does she mean? Then it occurs to him.

“Do you want to keep this a… secret?”

He can’t help the disappointment that creeps into his voice, letting his hand drop to his side. If it were up to him, he would shout it from his balcony. The one that overlooks the Keep. Have Leliana’s birds send messages to the furthest reaches of Thedas to proclaim the news.

She shakes her head. “But people will talk.”

“They already do. _Let them_.”

Her expression is still unsure, and it breaks his heart, but he won’t push her. However, she does deserve to have all the facts.

“Certain people already know,” he admits. “Cullen, Josephine and Leliana. I told them. I didn’t… I didn’t think. They may have told some of their people. And to be honest, they weren’t surprised. They thought we were _already_ … courting.”

“What?”

“The flirting. With you. You weren’t the only one who noticed.”

“Oh.”

Is it his imagination, or does she sound… happier about that?

“I’m sorry,” he apologises, anyway. “I should have asked you about this, before.”

“I had not really thought about it. I do not want to lie to our friends. It would make this… harder.”

“And Maker knows, our lives are hard enough already?”

A smile breaks over her face. “As you say.”

He holds out his hand again, and this time, she takes it.

The whole walk back, he’s half-expecting her to pull away from him. When the towers of the fortress come into view, and the possibility of people finding out becomes an ever-increasing reality, he becomes almost convinced of it. But she doesn’t.

As they cross the bridge, they hear noise coming from the courtyard. Cheers and whoops.

Cassandra’s hand tightens around his, her knuckles white with it.

Has word got out? Rumours confirmed by Leliana’s scouts or the runners he and Cullen had used to help bring the candles down to the grove?

Maker, has Josephine made an _announcement_?

He squares his shoulders a little, ready to face whatever waits for them.

They pass under the portcullis, and… the lower courtyard is empty, the cheers deafening but all focused on the… sparring ring? Perhaps? The crowd is too large to discern its centre.

He hands off the blankets and basket to a passing runner, telling the boy to take it all to his quarters, and then they follow the noise up the stairs.

It takes a little while to push their way through the surprisingly large crowd of soldiers, scouts and civilians to reach the middle. Few people stand aside willingly, even when they see exactly who is trying to get past. A captivating attraction, clearly.

When they finally make it through, they find Cullen and Bull in the ring.

Judging by the state of them, they have been fighting for a while. Cullen’s shirt is discarded on the rail. Both of them are sweaty, bruised and bloody, despite the two blunted training swords they are each wielding.

“Odds are going up on a win for the qunari!” he hears a familiar voice ring out. “Down on the Commander!”

Varric is pressed against the rail on the other side, in the middle of a secondary crush of people, a sack of coin at his feet. At the call, yet more people press towards him.

“He’s running quite a tidy racket,” he says, leaning over to catch Cassandra’s ear.

She makes a disgusted noise. “It is not the first time.”

“Shall we make our escape, or would you like to place a bet?”

The glower she shoots at him more than answers that question.

Fighting their way back out of the crowd is easier than fighting their way in. Eager spectators flow around them, using the opportunity of the disruption to get a little closer to the action. They make it to the door of the keep, weaving through the mass of onlookers watching from the steps. Inside, there are far fewer people than usual. Practically no one of any note, aside from a handful of sleepy Orlesians at breakfast.

“Well, it looks like the training might be out, at least for this morning,” he says. “Shall we go onto the next activity?”

Waiting, she gives him a curious look.

“I… I didn’t get that far, did I?”

She shakes her head.

He grins, opening the door that leads up to the rookery tower, and gesturing for her to go ahead.

When they reach the library level, he takes her hand again, leading her over to one of the nooks. Dorian has been diligently infuriating the resident librarian for months, rearranging the tomes into a more user-friendly filing system, but it does mean that he now knows exactly where to find what he is looking for.

A whole shelf, filled with the sort of bodice-ripping romance novels that Dorian and Varric promised him she would like.

“I had Dorian send off a few orders for you while we were in the Plains,” he tells her, while she runs her finger along the spines, reading their titles. “And I called in a favour from Varric to get some new things from his contacts. I was going to show you when we returned from Caer Oswin, but… well, the council kept me so busy and then we had our talk and well… Do you like them?”

She’s still fixated on the shelf. There are at least two dozen books on it, of course it’s going to take her a minute to look. He resigns himself to waiting, patiently, as she pulls a few out, studying their covers and reading a page or two.

When she turns around, her smile is brighter than the sun, and it’s a better feeling than the first time he slayed a dragon.

“You…” she starts, and then trails off, all but shaking one of the books at him. “Why would you…”

He smiles back at her. “Because I _see_ the heart that yearns for things you think you cannot have. And you liked Varric’s book more than the armour I designed, so I presumed if I wanted to make you happy… Are you? Happy? Do you like them?”

Glancing at the book in her hand and then back at the shelf for a moment, she steps towards him, hooking her arm around his neck and dragging him toward her for a brief but overwhelming kiss.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he says, unable to hold back his grin as she pulls back, returning her attention to the shelf.

“What did you intend for us to do?” she asks, replacing the book in its spot and turning back to him. “Or did you just wish to show me the books?”

Void, he really does keep getting distracted, doesn’t he?

“Ah, well, it was supposed to be a little later in the day, but I thought perhaps you could choose a book or two, and we can take them up to my quarters? I’ll read to you, or you can read to me, or we could take it in turns? Of course, if you’d rather read by yourself, I don’t mind. I can leave you be, and just see you for dinner.”

“You would read _to_ me?”

She sounds pleased by that, yes? He hopes.

“I’ll even do voices for the characters, if you like. I can’t promise they will be good, but… I’ll try. Which book would you like to hear?”

Turning back to the shelf, she peruses with an increased sense of purpose. More than once, she steals a glance back at him, where he patiently waits, and once she seems to be blushing, but he doesn’t say a word.

After what seems like half a lifetime, she finally selects three of the novels, holding them in a pile and tilting them away so he can’t see the covers.

“Your shortlist?” he asks.

She sighs. “I cannot decide. You may choose which you please.”

He grins.

Though Josephine had promised him a full two days off, he still can’t help expecting one of her people to suddenly appear at his elbow with a note about some emergency or other. Thankfully, though, they make their way from the library to his door and up the winding stairs to his quarters, un-accosted.

One of the servants has clearly been in this morning and re-laid the fire, and it’s pleasantly warm. There are a pair of pitchers, one with water and one with wine, and two cups, on his desk. His work yesterday morning, rearranging the furniture so that the sofa and small table are in front of said fire and not the stairs (where they invariably end up as sanctuaries for abandoned shirts and smallclothes), seems to have paid off. The room seems somewhat cosier than usual.

“It is… not how I imagined.”

He frowns slightly at her, before realising what she means. “You’ve never seen my quarters?”

She shakes her head, gravitating towards his desk and the bookshelves behind it.

“Mostly dry history, politics and magical theory, I’m afraid,” he says, as she runs her finger along the spines. “Josephine is very concerned that I need to be made well-informed of the entire family line of everyone I might come into contact with. I don’t think I’ve even opened half of them. There are a _few_ good ones. An excellent one on the Fifth Blight, for example, even though Leliana says half of it is wrong.”

She nods, distracted, turning to his desk. There’s another large book open on it.

“The Emperors of Orlais?”

“Part of my homework for the Ball,” he explains, somewhat sheepishly. “I have to memorise the lineage of the current Empress, and study her family history. Josephine thinks it will help me understand the cause of the civil war. But… that’s not why we’re here, is it?”

He transfers the pitchers and cups to the small table beside the sofa, and then sits down, patting the cushion beside him.

“Which book would you like me to read?”

She follows, settling down and placing the three books in the middle between them. He picks them up, examining the covers and opening them to read the first page of each. They all seem to be variations on a rather _specific_ theme.

“You really want me to do a Starkhaven accent, don’t you?” he says idly.

“I… what?” she stutters. “Why would you think-”

He chuckles softly, looking up to see the slight blush colouring her cheeks.

“It’s nae problem, lass,” he says, letting the accent broaden. “Our stablemaster at the estate hailed from Starkhaven. He hated Max and I murdering his tongue, so he taught us how to do it.”

“Silver-tongue,” she calls him, and he’s not entirely sure whether she means it as a compliment or an insult.

Either way, he chooses the book with the raven-haired lady on the cover, and puts the other two to the side, pouring them both some water. Then he kicks off his boots, propping his feet up on the stool in front of the fire, and holds out his arm. He isn’t certain whether she’ll take the opportunity, but she does, curling up under his arm, with her head on his shoulder.

“Shall I begin?”

She nods, and he reads.

“Sìne laughed with exhilaration as she rode her mount through the gates and across the bailey, her beloved trailing behind…”


	5. Chapter 5

He keeps surprising her.

She should be used to it by now. Ever since they found him in the rubble of the temple, delivered from the Fade by Andraste, or Justinia, or whoever the spirit was, he has been a source of constant and endless revelations.

Even so, he still manages to amaze her.

When she saw the books that he had procured for her, she had been all but overwhelmed. That he would have done such a thing, and before he knew that she had romantic feelings for him, baffles her. That he would offer to read them aloud, to take the time and energy to do it, only for her, made her heart fill almost to the point of bursting.

She’s always liked his voice. It is strong and clear; commanding when it needs to be, soft when it doesn’t. Always filling the silence, even when she would prefer the silence and it irritates her beyond belief, but she has never heard it quite like this...

Though she has never read this particular novel, it follows very familiar lines. A beautiful and headstrong heroine, her unsuitable beloved, and the trials and tribulations that befall them. Several attempted murders, of course. She has no doubt it will end in a happily ever after. It is made immeasurably better by the manner of delivery – his voice, his arm around her, the fire burning merrily in front of them.

“They had passed this tree before, Sìne is sure of it,” he reads. “‘Conall, ye have got us lost, haven’t ye? Finally an afternoon free of my father and your uncle, and ye have got us lost.’ ‘Not so, sweeting,’ he promised, taking her hand and pressing it against his heart. ‘Just a moment more, and ye’ll see.’”

Her eyes drift closed, lulled by his heartbeat under her cheek and the rumble of his voice.

“He led her through another copse, and there in front of them was a pool, a waterfall thundering into it. Just the thing for the heat of the summer day. He pulled off his boots, stripped down to his undershirt, and strode into the pool, submerging himself to his waist in the frothy water. ‘Well, lass?’ he said. ‘Are you nae going to join me?’ She tipped back her head in a throaty laugh and followed after, flinging her dress onto a bush, but leaving her shift on. Though that was for naught, given that it turned see-through at once upon contact with the pool…”

She feels him kiss the top of her head, and tips her face up, a little drowsily, to catch his eye.

“Were you asleep?” he asks.

“No!” she objects, though she cannot be entirely certain. It’s just so comfortable here. The fire does seem to have burned a little lower than it should have for the time that she has marked passing. And when did he put the book down? “Perhaps, a little.”

“Where did I lose you?”

She frowns, and he clarifies.

“In the book. What’s the last thing you remember?”

It takes her a moment to remember, confirming, perhaps, that he was entirely correct. “They had just reached a waterfall?”

He chuckles, the vibration of it going right through her, and picks up the book again, skimming back through at least a dozen pages. Maker, did he really read _so_ much more?

“You do not have to…” she starts.

“I thought you liked your smutty literature?” he cuts in, grinning down at her. “If you don’t let me continue, you’ll miss the mysterious stranger stealing their clothes and them having to return to the manor in nothing but their swimming attire. Or _lack_ thereof.”

She can’t help her gasp, peering over to try and get a better look at the book. He tilts it away from her, tightening his arm around her and waiting until she is back in her previous position before he continues to read.

As promised, their clothes are soon stolen by the mysterious stranger.

She continues listening for another couple of hours, as the heroine foils a plot to leave her orphaned and unmarried, easy pickings for her dastardly cousin, and the love interest challenges the cousin to a duel, displaying his superlative sword skills. It all ends happily, of course, with a wedding, and then… then, Brennan finally trips up.

“Conall… uh,” he says, stumbling over his words for the first time since he started reading. “Conall swept her up into his arms, crossing the threshold of her bedroom. Their bedroom now. Sìne let out a giggle, picking at the laces of his fine shirt, and he dropped her onto the... the, uh, bed.”

She stifles a laugh at his clear discomfort reading what she imagines, based on her knowledge of the other books by this particular author, will likely be a rather racy love scene. Reaching out for the book, she covers the words with her fingers, distracting him.

“You do not have to go on, if you don’t want to,” she says softly.

He pulls the book out of her reach with a nervous chuckle, shifting his hips slightly on the couch beside her.

Oh.

_Oh._

“We could… create a scene of our own?” she suggests. “No need to let them have all the fun.”

The book slips out of his hand, clattering on the floor even as he tries to make a grab for it. He overbalances in his attempt, almost tipping himself off the couch too. She hauls him upright again, a laugh bursting out of her before she can stop it.

“You can just say no, if you don’t want to,” she says, as his face flames in front of her. “I promise, I will not be offended. You have… plans. I trust you.”

He smiles, wide and relieved, as he retrieves the book and stacks it with the others on the small table. “Sorry. I didn’t really… think this through, did I?”

“Believe me, there are some far smuttier ones in that collection of yours, I am certain. I saw one by Magnus Vincenzo, for example. He writes nothing _but_ smut. Dorian lent me one once. Leliana caught me reading it at dinner and I could barely look her in the eye for a week.”

“Dorian did recommend him,” he sighs. “Presumably to torture me.”

“I imagine these were Varric’s choices?” she gestures to her shortlist.

“I think so.”

She smiles. “He chose them to torture _me_ , then.”

Brennan frowns.

“You were not… incorrect that I like a Starkhaven accent. And Varric is well-aware.”

He frowns again, and then smiles, knowing. “Sebastian Vael?”

“How did you- “

“I met him once, you know. In Starkhaven, at the Grand Tourney. He was a young, spoiled prince and I was a very young, spoiled noble. It was… memorable. When I read about him in Varric’s story… he had changed a lot. The Chantry, I suppose.”

“And Hawke.”

He smiles again. “Of course.” Then he reaches out, capturing her hand in his. “You don’t mind, really, do you? That I want to take this… slowly? I know our lives are dangerous and anything could happen, but-”

She squeezes his hand and shakes her head. The first time… the _last_ time, it had been intense. Both of them young and impulsive, making use of each other before their time ran out… This, this is different, she sees that now. He told her he loves her, and she believes him. If she is honest with herself, he has shown her a hundred times, a thousand, in the months they have been in each other’s company. She was just too blind, too reticent, too _frightened_ to see it.

“I love you.”

She doesn’t really realise it’s the truth until she says it out loud.

For a moment, his expression is incandescent, and then it clouds over. “You don’t have to say that, if you only think it’s what I want to hear.”

She shakes her head again. “I do not think I… let myself. It was impossible. For so long, I believed it was impossible. But you are here, and you… love me, and I… I am not good with words, Brennan. Not my own. But those, those are _my_ words. I _love_ you.”

The clouds clear.

“How… long?” he asks, and she hears the echo of her own words, on the walkway above the garden. Only three days ago, but it feels like a lifetime.

“The blizzard,” she admits, gaze slipping away from his toward the fire. “After the fall of Haven. The arrow had gone up, the avalanche had followed, and… You did not come. Dorian told me you had died, and I did not believe him. I _could not_ believe him. I left the caravan, went out into the driving snow, and…”

“You found me,” he says, and she feels him bring her their joined hands to his lips, pressing a kiss against her knuckles. “You _saved_ me.”

“Only just. You were dying. You would have… and I…”

She almost chokes on the words, the emotions that she had swallowed down so long ago forcing their way back up her throat.

“Look at me,” he commands, and unthinking, she obeys. “You _saved_ me. I _knew_ you would. That night, I kept going, because I knew, that if I just kept walking, kept putting one foot in front of the other, that _you_ would find me. The last thing I remember that day is seeing you, and knowing I was safe. Because you were there.”

Tears prick at the corners of her eyes, and he pulls on their joined hands, drawing her onto his lap and wrapping his arms around her.

“Hey, no, this wasn’t supposed to… I’m doing this all wrong. This wasn’t supposed to make you sad. I’m here and you’re here and I love you and you love me. So it doesn’t matter.”

She rests her head in the crook of his neck, the same way she had done that night. They’ve never… _talked_ about it before. Does he even know? She never heard rumours about it, as she expected. He… he deserves to know.

“You were dying,” she says softly. “You were _freezing_. They tried to warm you, but… the magic did not work. The healers were concerned about how the anchor would react to anything stronger. So… I… helped.”

“Oh?”

“Seekers are trained in survival techniques. How to stave off the effects of the elements. Body heat. Flesh pressed against flesh.”

“I woke in my smallclothes… I assumed the healers-“

“They did,” she cuts in, assuring him. “Your robes were soaked. But I…”

She trails off, unsure of how to word what she did. Then she feels the rumble of a stifled laugh beneath her cheek.

“Lady Pentaghast, are you telling me that the first time I got you out of your clothes, I was unconscious?”

Well, when he puts it like _that_.

She punches him very lightly in the chest, and that just makes him laugh even harder, so she pulls back a little to look him in the eye.

“You do not… mind? That I took such a liberty?”

“What liberty?” Then he smiles again, a little incredulous. “I was _dying_ , Cassandra, and you _saved_ me. I’m only sorry that I wasn’t conscious enough to appreciate it.”

Strangely, her shoulders feel lighter somehow. Like that night had been a load that she had been burdened by all these months.

He tucks his finger under her chin, gently tilting her face up so he can lean down and kiss her.

“Thank you, Cassandra. You know, I don’t think I say that enough. _Thank you_.”

“You do not need to thank me.”

“I’m not saying it because I need to.” He kisses her again, as if punctuating his sentence. “I’m saying it because I want to.”

She smiles at him, but just as she is about to say something else, she hears the unmistakable sound of his stomach grumbling. It makes her laugh instead.

“Is it lunch time?” she asks.

He looks past her to the windows, and then gives a sheepish grin. “I am fairly certain that we missed lunch entirely. It must be almost dinner time by now.”

She glances out. The sun is distinctly lower in the sky than she was expecting it to be.

“The book must have been more distracting than I thought.”

“It wasn’t the only thing distracting me,” he says, and then hastily adds, “not… not that you’re a _thing_. Sorry. That came out wrong. You were distracting me, I meant…”

She laughs again, silencing him with a kiss. It amuses her that she has found an infallible way to stop his babbling. It may not be appropriate on the battlefield, or during diplomatic meetings, but that may not stop her from trying.

“Should we go down?” she asks.

He hesitates, clearly torn between his desire for food, and his reticence to leave their little sanctuary and expose themselves to the rest of the fortress and its inhabitants. Then he smiles.

“Perhaps… if you could wait here? Let me go and fetch us something.”

“I can go with you…”

“Wait?”

She nods, slipping sideways off his lap and onto the sofa. “Hurry back.”

He jumps to his feet. “I will.”

Left alone in his room, she can’t help but explore a little.

The bookshelves she was drawn to originally contain all manner of titles, including the history, politics and magical theory he mentioned, but also a good deal of mythology, geography, geology and botany, which does not surprise her. There are titles in languages she recognises but doesn’t speak, and others in languages she cannot even begin to guess at. She suspects he was protesting too much about not even opening half of them, but she won’t press him on the subject.

His desk is littered with letters and reports, hopelessly disorganised. She leaves those alone. Cullen’s is similarly cluttered, but he always seems to know where to find what he wants. Perhaps Brennan is the same.

The bed, which she had evaded deliberately on her first investigation, is almost obscenely large, even compared to the palatial proportions of the room. Heavy, rich curtains hang on each side, and the bedspread, when she plucks up the courage to touch it, is certainly softer than anything she has ever slept on, even in the Divine’s palace.

She wonders idly if he was picturing her here, when he stopped her in the grove. Easy to see why he’d prefer this to the cold earth. Selfishly, she hopes he doesn’t have _too_ many more plans before he makes good on his promises.

By the time he returns, a covered tray in hand, she has returned to the sofa, relaxing back with the last chapter of the book. A long love scene, as she’d expected, but very… soft. Sweet.

“I’d say that was cheating, but it’s probably for the best,” he says, as he crosses the room, before sweeping half the papers off his desk to clear a space to put down the tray.

Just untidy, then, she thinks with a fond smile.

He brings her a large mug of soup, setting up a platter of cut bread, meat and cheese on the table in front of the sofa so they can both reach it, with a fresh bottle of wine. A very pleasant repast, she notes, that does not require any effort or cutlery to eat. Sensible man.

When he is settled himself, with his own mug, he grins at her.

“You will never guess who I just saw canoodling in the cellars,” he says, gleeful.

She frowns. “Who?”

“A certain lead scout, and a certain mercenary lieutenant.”

“Harding and Krem?”

It’s an… interesting pairing, not one that she would have thought of herself, but now that he says it…

“You didn’t disturb them, did you?”

He shakes his head. “They were tucked into one of the little alcoves near the kitchens. Don’t think they even knew I was there.”

“Good.”

“So, those two, us, Dorian and Bull; love seems to be in the air at the moment.”

She smiles warmly at him before he continues.

“Who will be next, do you think? Any more thoughts on who Cullen has his eye on?”

“Not on Cullen, but you didn’t mention Josephine and Blackwall.”

He almost chokes on his soup. “What?”

“You didn’t know?”

“How long has that been going on?”

“Oh, a while. She received some anonymous love letters, some flowers. Leliana and I joined her in a great deal of debate about the identity of her admirer before he revealed himself. Personally, I believe Leliana knew all along, however.”

“She is very sneaky.” He picks up a piece of bread, purposefully casual, before he says. “So… anonymous love letters? Would that have worked on you?”

“I would have identified your handwriting, Brennan.”

He grins. “What I’m hearing is yes, and that I should have borrowed a scribe. Might have taken some of the mystery out of it, though. And you might have fallen in love with them instead.”

“You can write me all the love letters you desire now.”

“You might think I’m joking, but I’m going to take you up on that, my love. So, Josephine and Blackwall too… Who else?”

By the time the food is finished, and they have thoroughly dissected what seems like every current and prospective relationship in the Inquisition, the sun has set and the stars have come out.

Brennan tries (unsuccessfully) to hide a yawn as he puts the empty crockery back on the tray, leaving it for a servant to pick up in the morning.

“You are tired,” she says. Not a question.

He shakes his head, coming back to the sofa. “Not at all. Unless… are you? I’m sorry, I kept you awake late last night, and…”

She silences him with a kiss again.

“I imagine you are required in the war room at dawn?”

He sighs. “Yes. No doubt Josephine has a long list of problems for me to deal with. Let alone Leliana and Cullen...”

“You should get some sleep.”

She can almost see the war in his brain, wanting her to stay but not wanting to ask, not wanting her to read more into it than he’s willing to give. Easier for her to make the decision for him.

“Besides, I should retire too. I will be taking the drills tomorrow morning. With Cullen, assuming there is anything left of him, so at least that will be one less person for you to deal with.”

He gives her a relieved smile. “At least let me walk you to the armoury.”

She shakes her head. “I will allow you to walk me to the edge of the hall, if you must, but I would prefer to say goodnight to you without… prying eyes.”

Given the content of their dinner conversation, he can hardly argue, and he doesn’t, simply drawing her close to kiss her properly for a few achingly long moments before he pulls away, standing and helping her to her feet.

“Is it strange to say I’m going to miss you?”

She shakes her head. “I know what you mean. But we cannot hide away from the world forever.”

“We could try?”

“Inquisitor.”

He laughs softly. “Understood. We can’t let Corypheus win. My responsibility and all.”

“I will not let him take you from me.” It has gone unspoken for a while, but she feels the need to make sure he _hears_ her say it.

He picks up the books from the table: the one they read together and the other two from her shortlist, and she holds them in one arm, leaving her other hand free for him to take as he leads her down the winding stairs.

When they reach the door to the main hall, he hesitates. Beyond, there are the sounds of the usual evening merriment, the real world. He uses his free hand to brush a stray bit of hair behind her ear before he cups her jaw, bringing her lips to his.

Less lightning, this time. Not in a bad way. This kiss feels more like his healing magic than his battle magic. Pouring light and love and longing into her with every breath. She feels almost dizzy with it.

When he breaks away, he leans his forehead against hers. She feels his whispered ‘I love you’ more than she hears it.

“I love _you_.”

Will he ever stop looking at her like that when she says those words? Incandescent, like the stars. She hopes not.

“Till tomorrow?” he says, and she can hear the slight tremor in his voice. As if a night away from him is going to cause her to forget this feeling.

“If I don’t see you before dinner, I will break you out of the war room for sparring practice,” she promises.

His grin somehow manages to brighten yet further. “I’ll hold you to that.”

“Good night, Brennan.”

“Good night, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it! Their first date. :D Still several more fics in the series to go though, no worries. ♥

**Author's Note:**

> This fic will have 5 chapters, all already written - going to post every Friday! My first multi-post fic ever. :)


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